


Well, That Bites

by mydwynter



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Humor, Light-Hearted, M/M, Prompt Fill, Selkie!John, Snark, Vamp!Moriarty, Vamplock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-12
Updated: 2013-03-12
Packaged: 2017-12-05 01:58:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/717542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydwynter/pseuds/mydwynter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Jim’s brain burst into a white, consumptive flame. They were kissing. His Sherlock and that bottom-dreg, half-human, furry-arsed </i>sea-slug<i> were locking lips in the middle of the club, and it was too much to bear.</i></p><p>Jim Moriarty's terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad, Friday night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Well, That Bites

**Author's Note:**

> Done for [ this episode of Chuck Wendig's Flash Fiction Challenge.](http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2013/03/01/flash-fiction-challenge-super-ultra-mega-game-of-aspects/)
> 
> Thanks to Roane for the lightning-quick beta.

The club was booming.

Literally booming. The walls shook, the railings vibrated, and the floors would surely have been trembling if they weren’t made of poured concrete. A troll the size of the Hulk was trying to cage dance, and resonation of the steel supports was shaking up the place.

In the centre of the dance floor was Sherlock, dancing with perfect grace in tight leather trousers and no shirt. The blue and purple lights bounced off his skin, and those around him shone with the reflected light. Basking in the glow was a smaller man, bronzed and gleaming, grinning and rocking to the music. He looked ridiculous. He looked like a golden retriever: fine for a snack, but nothing you’d want to _keep_.

The metaphor was flawed, anyway. Upon second glance the man was clearly of a nasty seal lineage—nothing as noble as a were-beast—and he practically reeked of the sea. Selkies shouldn’t be allowed to mix with greater beings. The last one Jim had allowed into his home left a giant fuck-off stain in the middle of his newly-refinished wood floors.

(Not that Jim had made an issue of it or anything; it wasn’t really worth the pain to raise the wrath of a selkie, even one who had made an absolutely appalling houseguest. But all that was besides the point. The…the _thing_ was flirting with Sherlock, and that wasn’t to be borne. A vampire and a selkie? _No._ )

Feeling just a bit sick to his stomach, Jim swayed his way across the floor and paused a moment to watch Sherlock dance. It was almost too beautiful to look at, the sight of that long spine and that luscious rear, and it made something deep inside Jim’s brain itch. But then the seal man laughed, and the itch burned as if a struck match had been pressed to it. Jim glared at his stupid face and his stupid t-shirt and his stupid hair. The man looked back. He smiled with his whole stupid, fang-less face.

Idiot.

Sherlock cast a sidelong glance down at Rancid Seal-Face and, quirking a smile, leaned down to murmur something into the selkie’s ear too quietly even for Jim’s hearing. The selkie smiled, and Sherlock smiled back, and then—

Jim’s brain burst into a white, consumptive flame. They were kissing. His Sherlock and that bottom-dreg, half-human, furry-arsed _sea-slug_ were locking lips in the middle of the club. It was too much to bear. Jim started to reach out for Sherlock’s elbow, but then Sherlock turned his head to deepen the kiss, and at that moment it became exactly like that train crash in Russia that Jim had had absolutely no hand in whatsoever (no matter what witnesses might say). Their arms clutched close, and their bodies moved closer, and they flared and raged in a catastrophic kiss that destroyed Jim’s ability to look away. He watched them pour their hearts out into each other’s mouths and gasp. He watched tongues working. He watched hands stray. It was revolting. It was _infuriating_.

Jim stepped up and wrenched Sherlock free. Sherlock growled, his eyes flashing, and if Jim’s heart still beat it would probably have stopped at the beauty of him. Those eyes in that face, that alabaster skin, and those… Jim’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Leather trousers. Erection. Sherlock had an erection.

Oh, the chum-breathed half man was gonna _burn_.

Jim glanced sideways to glare at the Saltwater Slut and was stopped by a second dark look. The glare smelled of revenge and hurt and torment and rage, the uncaring tide and the clutching foam, and if Jim’s metaphorical heart wasn’t already spoken for… Well, perhaps with that look it was a little easier to see what his lovely Sherlock saw in him.

And yet.

And yet not easy enough for all that. Jim turned to Sherlock, his chin held high. “What do you think you’re doing?”

It clearly wasn’t the question Sherlock was expecting, and at any other point Jim would have been pleased to get one over on him. But at that moment he was holding on to jealousy with two hands and a pitchfork, and he wasn’t letting go.

Sherlock gave him an insouciant look. “I’d have thought that was obvious. Would you like to catch a rerun?”

The Tiny Tidewater Tart next to him giggled, and Sherlock smiled proudly. He leant down to kiss him again, a soft thing with soft mouths. The itchy burn inside Jim's brain got stronger. After he left the club he was going to need to find a cat to torture. It would be cleansing.

“I thought we had an understanding,” Jim said, not to be cowed.

“An understanding?” Brine Breath piped up. Jim hated his voice. It sounded _kind_ , as if it were good at telling jokes and making Sherlock laugh. Jim briefly considered arranging another railroad accident just so he could throw him into its path.

Jim didn't bother to look at him. “You promised to be mine, Sherlock.”

“Did I?” Sherlock raised a brow. “And I was there for this conversation?”

Jim was gobsmacked. “Did we need to have one? Surely it’s obvious, Sherlock.” He sidled up to Sherlock coquettishly and drew one fingertip down Sherlock’s sternum. His skin was just as fine and perfect as it looked. Jim’s mouth watered. “We’re perfect for each other.”

“You think you’re in a relationship, and he doesn’t even know about it?” The selkie huffed a laugh that made Jim’s hand curl into a fist. “Isn’t a discussion sort of…mandatory?”

“Careful, John,” Sherlock said.

 _John?_ Jim’s interest was piqued. "Isn't it about time you go home and get chopped into little tiny pieces by a commercial fishing propeller?" John's eyes flashed. "Sherlock, how can you stand it? You could have everything—eternity, a life forever with me—but instead you take up with _sea chum_ you have to throw back every once in a while."

"Our arrangement is none of your business, _Jim_." He spat out the name like a curse.

"Of course it is. _Everything_ is my business." Jim made an expansive gesture to take in the people, the club, London, and the entirety of the Commonwealth. "Particularly this. Most definitely _this_."

"I'm not yours, Jim."

"But you COULD BE."

John spoke up lightly. "No, he really couldn't."

All the dancers round them were staring. Jim ignored them. "But we _belong_ together, Sherlock. You and me. Beauty and brains…"

"Which is which, I wonder?" Sherlock snarked.

"You're wasting your time with him. Two vampires like us? Our love could be eternal. Let's put down this _rabid ocean dog_ and go. "

"You're a fucking nutjob." John crossed his arms.

In the blink of an eye, Jim had a hand wrapped round John’s neck. He squeezed, relishing the way John's eyes popped out of his head like a child's toy. Then a flash of blinding white pain blossomed across Jim’s cheekbone and sparkled over his skull. He gasped and lost his grip on John, then staggered sideways.

 _"Don’t you touch him."_ Sherlock growled at a subsonic level, fangs bared.

Jim was still bent over in pain when the bouncers showed up. "You'll regret the day you caught my eye, Sherlock Holmes,” he said. They took him by the elbows, but he flapped out of their grasp and stood up tall in an attempt to regain some dignity. "You and your maritime pet."

"And your little dog too?" John said.

Sherlock smirked as Jim was being led off. "Come on," he said, and slung an arm about John's shoulders to lead him back towards the floor. "Let's dance."

Out on the pavement, Jim shoved his hands into his pockets. Then, surprised, he pulled out a small, gold-wrapped box. "All right," he said, holding it up above his head. He looked at the crowd surrounding him. "Who did this? Who put this in my pocket?" No one answered. No one even looked directly at him, instead shuffling their feet like well-dressed but terrified sheep. When he got no response, Jim scrutinised it then gave it a sniff. His face transformed into an expression of greedy delight. " _Sherlock_ ," he whispered. A voice spoke up in his ear.

"For you."

Jim whirled around to find Sherlock immediately behind him, ethereally pale in the sodium lights mounted to the brick facade of the club. Sherlock's expression was smooth, but there was something playful in his eyes. Jim looked around for Sherlock's loyal pet, but he was nowhere to be seen.

"John's…otherwise occupied," Sherlock said, reading his mind. Jim felt a brief flash of suspicion, but Sherlock’s manipulative powers were a match for Jim’s own, and if anyone else could have dropped the hanger-on like a fetid lump of seaweed, Sherlock could. He and Jim really made a magnificent match. "I didn't want him to know."

"Sherlock," Jim said, coy. "You shouldn't have."

"Well. It was about time."

"Do you always play so hard to get?" Jim started to open up the box, but Sherlock stepped in, covered the box with his hand, and pressed the side of his face to Jim's.

He whispered, "Not here. Wait until you're in the car. No one else should know until I've got rid of John."

Jim giggled and nuzzled the side of his face against Sherlock's. "I knew you'd come around."

"This really was inevitable, wasn't it," Sherlock said. It wasn't a question. He stepped back just as Jim's chauffeur pulled up to the kerb.

Jim walked backward to the car, keeping Sherlock in his sights and grinning like a loon. “Should I wait for you, my love?”

A smile quirked up the corner of Sherlock’s perfect face. “I’ll meet you at yours in an hour.”

“You know where I live?”

“I can figure it out.” Sherlock grinned brilliantly, and his eyes flashed.

Jim threw his head back and laughed, fangs already beginning to extend with anticipation. “I know you can, Sherlock Holmes,” he said, taking care not to lisp, then climbed into the car.

Jim knelt up and looked back through the tinted windows to watch Sherlock watch them drive off. Then he spun back around and dropped down to his seat like a child. “Shall we see what he gave me, Jacott?” He tore off the gold foil wrapping and tossed the black bow to the floor to reveal a velveteen jewellery box. He giggled and opened it up to find a small silver locket. Delighted, Jim let it catch on his fingers so he could clap his hands together. “Jacott, he bought me jewellery!” He swung the locket to look at it from all sides. He sniffed it, licked it, and grinned. “Finally, I know what his fingers taste like. I can’t _wait_ to taste them in person.” He growled and grinned at the back of Jacott’s head. “Want to know what’s inside? Of course you do. Who wouldn’t?” He wedged a thumbnail under the clasp. “I bet it’s a love note.”

Jim flicked the catch. The locket sprang open, filling the interior of the car with a blast of light. “Dude, what the f—”

* * *

The street was too quiet, even for 3am in London. Stopped dead in the middle of the lane was a limousine, the tinted windows of which glinted variously in red, green, and yellow as they reflected the streetlights. A soft wind blew, scattering paper napkins and empty cigarette packs. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked.

And inside the car, on sleek leather seats, rested two fresh piles of dust.


End file.
